Play Dead (2 page)

I heard a familiar woof in the background,
and my heart lurched a little as I instantly recognized the deep tones of
Pavlov, my German shepherd. I wished I could be with both of my dogs right now.
I was currently renting a room in a house—all I could afford till my
business got established. Sadly, the owner forbade dogs. Though my cocker
spaniel, Doppler, had won the woman over—influenced, no doubt, by my
insistence that I would not move in without at least one of my dogs—she
drew the line at the German shepherd.

“Did you have any other questions for our
guest?” Tracy asked my mother.

“No, though I must say that you are the
worst interviewer I’ve—”

Tracy flicked a switch and said, “Oops.
Line went dead. These darned phones. But we got us another caller. You’re
talking to Tracy True-It-Is. How ya doin’?”

“Hi, um, my name’s Beth Gleason,” said a
quiet, youthful, female voice. “Actually, I have a problem with my dog?”

“Yes, Beth. What’s the problem?” I asked.

“He won’t eat. It’s, like, he’s starving
himself to death.”

“First off, when a dog won’t eat, it’s
usually a medical problem. Have you taken him to a vet?”

“Yeah, and they say there’s nothing wrong
with him. He’s a collie. I got him from the shelter after his owner died.”

“I see. And do you know much about his
former owner—especially, what your dog’s feeding routine and brand of dog
food were?”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely. I know a lot about
the former owner. Just about everybody in Boulder knew her. You probably read
about her death in the papers. It was all over the news about six weeks ago.”

I had moved back to Colorado less than a
month ago, but didn’t want to distract Beth from her story, so I merely said, “Go
on.”

“It was that rich lady, Hannah Jones, who
was found shot to death in her house, and they finally ruled it a suicide.”

Across the table, Tracy grinned wild-eyed
at me, then at Greg in his control booth, and let out a low breath, mouthing
the words, “Hot damn!”

“Beth, my first reaction is that we
probably shouldn’t go into all of this on the air.”

Tracy immediately gestured at me and tried
to shout within a whisper, “Yes, we should!”

Doing my best to ignore Tracy, I
continued, “I would very much like to help, though. You might want to call my
office. Just tell me one more thing. Do you know if you’re giving your dog the
same brand of dog food Ms. Jones had been giving him?”

“Yeah, like I said. I’m giving Sage, that’s
my dog’s name, the same food he always had. I got the original food itself. The
people watching him after Hannah died brought Sage’s forty-pound bag of dog
food to the animal shelter with him. But—” She paused. “I know this
sounds crazy, but...It’s just, like, the way Sage barks like mad at
men—especially, well, really
only
if it’s a man wearing a coat.”

That was interesting and gave me some
immediate theories, but again I thought it best not to interrupt.

Beth continued, “And Sage, you know,
flinches from loud noises? I just—I really think he’s trying to tell me
that Hannah Jones didn’t commit suicide. This is so embarrassing, so you can
tell me straight out if you think I’m nuts here.”

She paused, and I could hear her take a
deep breath. Beth said, “I really think Sage witnessed Hannah’s death. I think
a man in a raincoat shot her.”

I was still stunned at the murder
suggestion when, across from me, Tracy Truett let out a squeal of delight and,
with her sturdy arms and fists in the air, said into the mike, “Remember, you
heard it first on the
Tracy Truett Show!
Hannah Jones was murdered, and
her collie dog, Sage, can identify the killer!”

Incredulous, I stared at the show host.
The last thing this poor, starving dog needed was to be turned into a local
celebrity! Tracy folded her arms and leaned on the table, then gestured with a
sweep of her hand that it was my turn to speak.

My heart pounding with pent-up
frustration, I wrapped my hands around the base of my microphone and said, “Beth,
there are many possible causes for Sage’s reaction to men in raincoats. The
very least likely cause is that Sage witnessed a murder by one.”

“Yeah, but—” Beth began.

“So you’re saying it
is
possible,”
Tracy Truett broke in.

I glared at Tracy, angered that the show
host’s eagerness for a flashy story was interfering with my attempts to help a
seriously distressed dog. “What I’m saying is that it’s extremely unlikely.” I
focused on the phone, my only connection to Beth Gleason and her collie. “My
immediate concern is for Sage. Beth, from what you’ve said, it sounds as though
your collie is having extreme troubles adjusting to his new situation. Even so,
a grieving or depressed dog will usually eat at least enough to sustain
himself.”

“Sage isn’t eating anything at all. He won’t
even go near his bowl, and if I try to hand feed him something, he backs away.”

“We have to—”

“Hey, Allida,” Tracy interrupted. “Here’s
an idea.”

I automatically looked up. Tracy was
already nodding wide-eyed at me to gain my consent. “Have Beth bring the dog
here to KBXD. We’ll put his entire therapy procedure on the air. We’ll attach
wireless mikes to the three of you. Then we’ll—hey, Greg, you wouldn’t
mind putting on a raincoat for the sake of science, would ya? We’ll get ‘im a
plastic gun and test Beth’s theory. What do you think, Doc?”

What I thought was that Tracy needed to
switch from whiskey to coffee. I ignored my host and asked calmly, “Beth, are
you still there?”

“Yes. What should I do?”

I rose, but leaned toward the mike. “Can
you and Sage possibly meet me at my office, 1197 Mapleton, at three
pm?”

“Wait! Inquiring minds want to hear this
therapy session!” Tracy gestured at the phone, where all five buttons were
flashing. As I pushed my chair under the table, Tracy’s voice switched into
genteel tones as she cooed into the mike, “Time for a brief commercial break.”
She flipped a switch, got to her feet while ripping off her earphones, and
pointed a finger at me. “Listen, honey, you don’t seem to understand that a
series on Hannah Jones’s canine witness could save KBXD from extinction. You’ve
got to stay on my show!”

“I can’t
do
that! You’re talking
about bringing a traumatized dog who, from all indications, hasn’t eaten in days,
and turning attempts to help him into a circus act!”

Tracy smiled and took a swig of whiskey.
She said in a throaty voice, “No, Missy Babcock. I’m talking about giving your
doggie’s shrink practice such a boost, you’ll be turning collies into shelties
on a regular basis.”

“Thank you for having me on your show,
Miss Truett. I only wish I’d been on yesterday, instead of today.” I’d listened
to that broadcast. She’d been sober then and had done a good job. But no use
crying over guzzled whiskey. I walked out of the studio.

“Hey, Greg,” I heard Tracy exclaim from
the speakers in the hallway. “Don’t just sit there! Stop her!”

I hesitated in the lobby for just a
moment, thinking I wouldn’t mind giving Greg an earful, now that I was off the
air. He didn’t come after me. I crossed the parking lot, got into my cherry-red
Subaru wagon, started the engine, and heard the voice of Tracy saying over the
air, “—listeners’ poll on how many of us think Sage did indeed witness
the murder of—”

I clicked off my radio and drove west
toward my downtown office and the Flatirons, craggy mountain faces that towered
over the town of Boulder. The least I could do to vent, I decided, was throttle
that ignoramus Russell Greene for asking me for a date during a live broadcast.

Despite trying to focus on my officemate
and not to draw conclusions before meeting Sage and his owner, I found myself
mulling Sage’s possible status. Depression in dogs over the loss of a beloved
owner has been well documented. I’d recently heard of a dog in London who,
every day for seven years, returned of his own volition to wait on the steps of
the hospital in which his owner had died.

On the other hand, I wondered if Beth’s
conclusions about “a man in a raincoat” were an example of what I liked to call
“The Lassie Syndrome.” It was all too easy to read a human response and thought
process into each little dog-like action of a beloved pet.

I pulled into my reserved space next to
Russell’s avocado-colored Volvo on the formidable hill by my building. I got
out, descended the concrete steps where my office entrance was cut into the
hill, and marched straight through my office and into Russell’s. Empty.
Probably
ran for cover,
I thought. The coward.

The light on my answering machine was
flashing. Four calls in my brief absence. That was a personal record, but then,
they might all be sympathy calls from friends and relatives who’d heard the
broadcast. I pressed the playback button. I had a pair of quick hang ups, but
also messages from two prospective clients: a fox terrier too rough with the
children, and a golden retriever destroying the house whenever the family was
away. I grinned. Ironic that bad news for others meant good news for me. If I
was
really
lucky, half of the dog population in Boulder would run amok
and make their owners’ lives truly miserable.

Before I could return my first call, the
door creaked, and I whirled around, hoping to see Beth and her collie. Instead,
it was a very humble-looking Russell Greene. His dark hair and mustache were as
neat as ever. Today he wore newly pressed jeans and a white shirt with a
striped tie.

My high heels negated the six inches he
had on me. I strode toward him, doing my best to sound like a growling pit bull
as I said, “Russell—”

He took a step back, but held up a colorful
bouquet of spring flowers as if it were a shield. “Before you say anything,
Allie, I just—”

The flowers only caused a momentary
distraction to my instantly accessible anger. “It’s Allida,” I snapped. “In
fact, it’s Miss Babcock for you, from now on.”

“Sorry, uh, Miss Babcock.”

Now that I heard him call me that, I felt
a little silly and had to resist a smile.

Russell cleared his throat. “What I’m
trying to say is that I’m
really
sorry. Believe it or not, I just wanted
to impress you by demonstrating how...er...spontaneous and fun I could be.
Rumor has it that we electrical engineers are not known for our spontaneous
wit. I thought you’d...be charmed.”

“You thought it was
charming
to
call into the live radio show I was only doing to advertise my
profession
and
ask me for a date?”

He gave me a sheepish grin, which, framed
by the bouquet in his arms, was rather charming—though I was not about to
admit that to him. “Yes, but then I listened to some more of the show, and I
realized you weren’t enjoying yourself and I probably embarrassed you.” His
cheeks growing redder by the second, he offered me the bouquet, already in a
jar full of water. I recognized from the wrinkled mayonnaise label that this
was the jar that had been catching drips underneath the sink in our bathroom.

I decided not to make a wisecrack about
the makeshift vase. He handed me the flowers. His eyes were sparkling, and he
truly was an attractive man.

“Thank you. They’re lovely.” I took a deep
breath of the sweet fragrance, then set the jar and contents on the corner of
my desk—a “slightly used” oak set I’d gotten from a bankruptcy sale,
along with the other sparse furnishings—two gray two-door file cabinets,
a pair of hard-backed chairs, a folding table, and a personal computer.

“Could I...take you out to dinner to make
this up to you?”

“No, Russell.”
Sheesh!
I silently
added. I’ve worked with wolf hybrids who had an easier time taking no for an
answer.

There was a light tapping on the glass
door just behind Russell, who stepped back to reveal a disheveled looking young
woman with a sable collie. This could only be Beth Gleason and Sage. Russell
surveyed the two of them and, demonstrating his usual dog phobia, held up a
palm, murmured, “I’d better get back to work,” and strode into his office, shutting
the door.

The dog and his owner entered. I gave a
quick glance at Beth, mentally registering that she was in her twenties or so,
attractive, very tall, and wore loose-fitting dark clothing, then I turned my
gaze on the collie.

By show standards, Sage could not be
called beautiful. Though his coat was full and in the classic sable
pattern— snow-white ruff, tan body and muzzle, white paws and
tail-tip—he had a face only a dog person could love. His nose was not
only Roman, but oversized and bumpy. One of his black ears was up, the other
down. He walked as if carrying the weight of the world on his back—head
hanging. The midsection of the leash dragged on the ground like a jump rope.

“You’re Allida Babcock?” Beth asked
nervously.

“Yes,” I answered, “and you must be Beth
Gleason.” I flashed a quick smile at her. She bore the same dispirited
countenance as her dog, as well as the nearly identical shade of reddish brown,
long, shaggy hair. I noted that her entire outfit, including her socks and
sandals, was black. Returning my gaze to Sage, who flopped down in front of the
door, I said, “Hi, Sage.” I moved toward him slowly. He looked up at me with
his beautiful brown eyes, his chin still resting on his paws. I stroked his
head, then gently moved my hand down his body. Sage’s ribs were protruding,
though this was hidden by the thick coat, which was shedding between my
fingers.